


be gay do crime

by hazelnuttygoodness



Category: NG (Visual Novel)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Spoilers, Partners in Crime, Pining, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, They Are Idiots, akira trying not to be caught checking amanome out, amanome trying not to be caught checking akira out, and kind of homo, as i will probably continue doing so, bros being bros, i wrote this until 3am watching amanome playthrough instead of sleeping, okay very homo, self indulgent dude bros to lovers because i am Weak, what if we ride off into the night on your bike bro no homo, will probably turn nsfw later because i have no self control
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22061323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazelnuttygoodness/pseuds/hazelnuttygoodness
Summary: Maybe this is why people generally look down at cooking meals at 2 A.M. Though he supposes people generally don’t have a hot boy showering in their bathroom. He makes a face at himself. That sounded wrong. Object of affection.And somehow that’s worse.
Relationships: Amanome Seiji/Kijima Akira
Comments: 3
Kudos: 45





	be gay do crime

Some nights Amanome would come over. It was far from unusual, and more frequent than Amanome admits to, but Akira didn’t mind. That was just Amanome; arriving unannounced and letting himself in where he saw fit. And then there was Akira’s apathetic disposition, or as Amanome puts it, the ‘Akira brand of not giving a shit’. Akira had to agree with him. He feels half of that was why they got along so well. The other half being he was his only and best friend. Which was redundant to even say, so he never would.  


There were nights that Amanome would stay over. Akira could count on one hand the amount of times Amanome would stay the night at his place. How he preferred to spend money in a hotel just to wait for the morning instead of a free place to sleep was beyond Akira, but different strokes for different folks he supposed. And Amanome was always one of the high-end spoiled folks. He remembers a time where Amanome would sleep at his place, though. In the first few years of middle school he practically lived with him at any chance he could get. He wondered when that stopped.  


“What are you so lost in thought in?” Amanome’s voice lulls over him while he presses a can to Akira’s face. He jerks back once registering the cool touch of metal and Amanome laughs. “Don’t hurt yourself.”  


“Fuck off,” Akira says without bite. “Give it over if you’re offering.”  


Amanome lets him snatch it from his grip and takes the seat next to him. They’ve ridden to the park at yet another of his unprompted late-night visits. He sits languidly, legs crossed and examining the back of his own canned drink. It’s an orange flavored sports drink of some kind, sweet enough it borders on being soda but flat enough it’s registered as juice. Amanome insists it’s not juice, and anything that isn’t coconut water is juice to him. Akira points out there’s a reason coconut drinks are never called coconut juice and Amanome just sighs in response. He takes that as a victory and drinks his juice satisfactorily.  


They talk for a while about nothing until Amanome catches himself from yawning. Akira nudges his shoulder roughly. “If you’re tired let’s go home.”  


Amanome scoffs. “You say that as if we live together.”  


“Shut up. You want a ride home or not?” Akira gets up and doesn’t bother to stifle his own yawn.  


“I feel uncomfortable having a tired driver,” Amanome grins goofily, tiredness taking a toll on that practiced smug mask and melting it through to something more genuine.  


“Then walk.” Akira says but tosses Amanome the helmet. He’s already sitting close to the wheel and pulls on his gloves, flexing the stiffness out of them. When he realizes Amanome’s been silent and still hasn’t sat with him he turns his head. “Are you zoning out? Don’t sleep standing up.”  


Amanome shakes his head and doesn’t meet his eyes. “I’m not a horse.”  


He climbs onto the bike. Akira just gives him a grin that makes Amanome roll his eyes and shove him forward. It’s light and even if it wasn’t Amanome was surprisingly more built like a twig than he would expect from a son of the yakuza. He hasn’t brought that up since that one time in middle school when changing in the lockers and Akira shoved at his chest jokingly but Amanome stumbled back into the lockers. Amanome considered it as fooling around and defended himself in that not everyone was built to rely on being a brute. Ironically.  


He never gave any signs that he was insecure about his body and that was not something Akira cared for doing either. He wasn’t that shallow. But it was something contradictory in the way that he liked that about Amanome. He was lithe, toned biceps under slender arms and legs. And something about that memory in the changing room in that quick second’s touch against Amanome’s flat plane of chest made Akira’s throat feel constricted. He remembers that feeling more vividly than anything else from that day. When Amanome closes his arms around his waist he remembers the stable strength from those thin arms. He coughs and revs the engine.  


The drive is quiet as always. Akira likes to lose himself in the rumble of his bike and the stretch of empty roads under the city’s dim lights. Amanome knows this and doesn’t have much to say himself. He usually just hums against his back if he’s feeling light enough. Tonight isn’t one of those nights it seems, so Akira drives faster than normal, and it makes Amanome cling tighter. Akira laughs and Amanome feels it more than hears it over the wind, motor, and helmet. He jabs the bony part of his palm into Akira’s stomach, but it makes him laugh louder. Amanome just taps his helmet against the back of Akira’s head to get the final word. He lets him, a smile pulling at his face.  


When they begin to reach the road to the station and Akira slows down enough that the wind isn’t the only sound they can hear, Amanome taps at Akira’s chest. More like whaps his hand against him enough times until Akira grinds out a, “What?”  


He’s silent for a moment and Akira’s nearly about to prompt him again. “Can I stay the night?”  


His tone is uncharacteristically unsure but Akira chalks it up to sleepiness being the gateway to vulnerability. He nods.  


“Sure.” And speeds up again. “Don’t know why you decided to wait so long. Now we have to ride longer.”  


Amanome tightens his hold on Akira’s waist again before the wind is all they can hear. “You don’t mind.”  


He doesn’t. 

There’s something wrong with Akira.  


It’s probably because Amanome hadn’t stayed the night in a while and Akira became conscious of it. Logically, that was all it was. But that doesn’t mean by default he should be thinking about Amanome going into his shower and Amanome borrowing a change of his clothes. Hyperactively so. And he should definitely not be thinking about how the water would run over his body, over that pale slim plane of chest that’s probably broader now that they’re older. Akira gives the carrot he’s chopping an unnecessarily hard hit. The slam of knife on cutting board must be heard to the bathroom. He steers his train of thought away from there. Bathrooms were evil. Full of portals to the underworld, dimensions of possessed dolls that wager games with your soul, and childhood friends showering that shouldn’t be hot. What was hot was this fried rice. Simmering, decent, warm fried rice. Safe, reliable, good fried rice. Fried rice wouldn’t betray him with hauntingly confusing thoughts that would sear into his mind. Only bursts of flavor on a cushion of lightly flavored pillowy, textured rice. And for that to happen, the carrots needed to be chopped in not chunky Lego block fashion. He inwardly groans when he hears the shower turn on.  


Carrots.  


He forces his hands to work when his mind doesn’t. It’s preferable that way, honestly.  


Maybe this is why people generally look down at cooking meals at 2 A.M. Though he supposes people generally don’t have a hot boy showering in their bathroom. He makes a face at himself. That sounded wrong. Object of affection.  


And somehow that’s worse.  


Realistically, it’s obvious he has affection towards Amanome. He’s his best friend. They’re partners in crime and ghost hunting, apparently. It’s natural he cares for Amanome so much. It isn’t out of nowhere that he may have found that affection to turn towards a crush. It’s probably only shocking now that he’s realized this. There have always been remnants, hints that he brushed off as being touched by the other’s friendship. Which was true. He can’t imagine where the line was that divided how much he cared for Amanome from how much was him being friendly. They went hand in hand.  


His carrot slices come out thinner and even. He relaxes his body he didn’t know was stiff. Eventually all the pieces were cut and the rice simmering as he mixed them in on the wok. When he hears the water turn off, he half expects himself to go rigid again. But the sight of Amanome with damp hair lazily dried with a towel draped on one shoulder as the rest of water drips and wets the right side of his shirt only tugs at his heart in a familiar way.  


“Smells good.” Amanome leans against the counter. Akira flicks a drop of water from his wet bangs.  


“Dry your hair properly,” he returns to sifting through the rice with the spatula.  


Wow. TV and books overexaggerated. This was easy.  


“Fine, mom.” Amanome hops up on the opposite side of the stove’s counter, toweling his hair haphazardly. Akira has half a mind to put the stove on low and dry it for him, but that’d be too selfish just because he wants an excuse to touch Amanome. He swallows. Oh no.  


Maybe this wasn’t as easy as he thought.

**Author's Note:**

> be gay do crime has been my mantra throughout this whole writing process


End file.
